


Journey's End

by wingthing



Series: The EQ Alternaverse [21]
Category: Elfquest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingthing/pseuds/wingthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spirits of Father Tree beg Redlance to restore the Holt in the Old Land. But something in the earth does not Father Tree to be reborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journey's End

The last great storms of the new green had brought flooding to the edge of Thorny Mountain Holt. A mass of sticks and mud swept down the river had lodged at the base of Strongbow and Moonshade’s tree, gumming up the exposed trees and breaking off the steps that led up from the ground. One-Eye and Woodlock had cleared away the debris, and now Redlance stood at the base of the tree, showing his daughter how to shape the little mushroom-like steps. 

“The trick, Spar, is to make the steps look like normal fungal growths, just in case a lone human blunders past. Make them regular enough to climb without difficulty, but not too regular or even the most fool-headed human will grow suspicious.” 

Spar bit her lip and laid her hands on the bark. A misshapen lump slowly formed. Redlance smiled gently and smoothed away the roughness on the top of the step. “There, you see. Just like–” his eyes grew unfocused and he stared off into space. “Um... just like that,” he finished. 

“Father?” 

“I don’t know... I just had the strangest feeling... as though I had done this before recently. As though I’m remembering a dream I had lost. Something about trees... I suppose it’s not important.” 

Kit got up from the little stump atop which she had been mending her lovemate’s tattered shirt. “That’s where you’re wrong, my chief. There is much to be learned from dreams.” 

“Well, I can’t remember it anymore,” Redlance shrugged. 

“Just because you can’t doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,” Kit said. “You know... Littlefire and I have a good stock of dreamberry wines and memory teas in our root cellar. I bet we could wake even Skot’s sleeping memory.” 

Redlance chuckled. “I don’t normally like to adle my senses that much. But perhaps when the night’s chores are done...” 

Sure enough, as the night wore Redlance stuck his head in Kit’s den. It was not the tree she had first claimed years ago when she left her parent’s den; the passing turns and Littlefire’s skills as a stoneworker meant a large tree capable of holding a larger bower. The last few years had been very good to the Wolfriders, and several new “howling hides” hung on the walls of the den, one serving as a partition between the sleeping area and Littlefire’s workshop. The Glider saw Redlance climb inside the door and flashed him that slightly lopsided smile. 

“You – you’ve come. Good – good. Kit told me all about your dream. I – I’ll go find the right wine – I – I know the best vintage.” 

Littlefire disappeared behind the leather curtain and Redlance knew he would fly down the tunnel Redlance himself had treeshaped down to the root cellar. Kit bade Redlance sit down on the furs and soon enough Littlefire returned with a skin of wine. 

“Hcc – potent,” Redlance remarked when he had drained it. 

“It – it has to be,” Littlefire stammered out. “You – you can’t remember the deep-buried dreams when the world’s too much with you. I... I use this one a lot, you know. Drink it down then l-lock-send with Kit... helps me see the world more like you do – shuts down the senses I don’t need just now.” 

“Just relax, Redlance,” Kit prompted. “Close your eyes. Let your mind wander to the banks of dream river.” Her voice was soothing, hypnotic. “Stop there. Ask for what’s past to float by again.” 

“Mmm...” Redlance murmured, settling his head back against the pillows. “Perched on the edge... between waking and sleeping... I see.... Ah, now I remember.” A smile crossed his face. “I am the spirit of the Father Tree, in the Holt where I was born. My body is old beyond telling. Bark and branch, leaf and deep-buried root draw life from the soil, and from every living thing around them. I give breath to all creatures dwelling near me and in me.” He sighed contentedly. “I am connected to many others such as I. In the forest, what one feels, all feel. 

“Look! As they have done for generations, Wolfriders race away from the Holt ontheir nightly hunt. I wish them well as they go to keep the forest’s living things in balance. Spirits fill me from roots to top leaves. All those who had dwelt within me... they are with me still. Even beyond death, Goodtree, my shaper, lends her powers so my body continues to grow in forms that mean ‘home’ to the elves.” 

Littlefire and Kit leaned closer to catch his words as his voice grew softer. 

“As the years pass in their many eights-of-eight, seasons changing in endless cycles, the living treeshapers work with the spirits to keep me and my brethren healthy and strong. This is what it means to be truly immortal, for even the white cold means not death, only sleep... and not solely for me and my fellow trees, but for those who rest inside me, safe and warm, awaiting the time of the new green. Love for these ‘seedlings’ of mine courses through my limbs even as the sap they call blood couses through their veins.” 

He sat bolt upright, his eyes still closed. “But then one day, sparks! Sparks of fire borne on the wind! They touch my leaves, cling to my bark... and burn! My brothers at the forest’s edge cry out: the humans! The one called Spirit Man and his followers! They have done this! Poor souls! Don’t they know? Their deed of fear and vengeance against the elves will consume them as well. 

“The Wolfriders flee, and well they should, for there is nothing they can do. I feel the deadly heat, as do my fellow trees! Searing agony! We scream with one voice!” 

His body shook with tremors, and Littlefire drew back in fear. But Kit steadied her lovemate with her hand. Redlance’s eyes were still closed, and he was still lost in the dream. At length his shoulders relaxed. 

“Yet there is no fear, even now,” his voice resumed its dreamy tenor. “For just as wolves thin the deer herds, making them stronger, so the flames thin the forest. This blaze might have been caused by an unexpected bolt of skyfire. There is no resentment in me. It is my time.” 

He moaned softly. “It goes on long – long, the burning! At last the flames begin to die. Feel... feel myself... crumbling... to an ashen stump.... Life force... all but drained from me and my brethren... spirits of all the treeshapers... help us!” 

The weight seemed to ease from his muscles and he sank down against the furs again. “Down beneath the scorched forest floor, down where the soil is still moist and rich, I am called to a healing. Oh, see! Our roots! Our roots haven’t been destroyed. I know now, my brethren and I will grow back. It will take many eights of seasons, a long, slow upward climb to the light... but someday, all shall be as it was. The Wolfriders, the children born in my wooden womb will return to me....” He stirred softly, and his eyes began to flutter open. Kit was smiling, and Littlefire was wiping the errant tears from his eyes. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Trees are... are like High Ones... they live forever.” 

“It’s a wonderful dream, Redlance,” Kit began. But now Redlance had tensed again, and his eyes closed tight. 

“Something else... something else is coming...” 

“What?” Kit asked. “Tell us what you see.” 

“The holt is deserted. The Wolfriders were here, but they’ve gone again. A new threat approaches. Not humans. Not fire. Something... else. Black... cold tendrils reaching out towards me and my brethren... sapping our strength, bleeding us dry. Now there is pain, resentment and fear, for this is a cruel blow born not the forest, but of... of a place beyond our knowledge!” 

He sat up again, and his eyes snapped opened. But there was no light in them, and he stared blindly past the two lovemates. “We shiver as one as the blackness strangles us! It will not stop until our destruction is complete. It feeds upon us... it rejoices in our pain. We can hear laughter! Cruel laughter! Cruelty – malice – this is not of the forest! Wolfriders! Loving spirits! I need a healing! Voices cry out from within me. So many voices. ‘Redmark.... child of our bones... save us! Come home to us, dear son! We need your strong heart, your healing soul! Fresh soil and new life! A return to our roots! A healing!’” 

His rambles dissolved into a long cry of agony. Littlefire burst into tears and hid behind the curtain in terror. Kit leapt forward and shook Redlance’s shoulders roughly. 

“Redlance! It’s me. You’re safe! Wake up, chieftain! Wake up!” 

Redlance snapped out of the trance. “Huh... what... Kit?” 

Littlefire peered out anxiously from behind the curtain. “Chief Redlance?” 

“It’s all right, Littlefire,” Kit said. “Come out and help me.” 

Littlefire hung back nervously. “Too loud...” 

**Please, Wesh. He’s still dazed. He needs fresh air.** 

The entire tribe had gathered outside the den by the time Kit and Littlefire managed to help Redlance to the mouth of the den. Nightfall was first at his side. “Beloved!” she cried, hugging him tightly. 

**What happened?** Strongbow demanded. 

“A bad dream, that’s all,” Kit said. 

“I’ve never heard you cry out so,” Nightfall whispered. 

Redlance hugged her back. “I’ve never seen... or felt – the things I did this evening.” 

Quickly he and Kit retold the dream to the assembled Wolfriders. When it was over Spar slipped past her mother and hug Redlance. “Oh, Father... it sounds horrible. But it’s over now.” 

“I don’t think it is. That blackness... that malice and cruelty... I shan’t forget it any time soon. And the plea... the voice calling for a healing... now that I remember it more clearly...” his face grew very pale. “I thought I heard my father... my mother...Chieftess Joyleaf... all the voices of my childhood... all alive in Father Tree... all under assault.” 

“Is it a symbol?” Nightfall asked the howlkeeper. “Or a warning?” 

“Maybe both. Maybe there’s a teaching in it that needs uncovering.” 

“No...” Redlance whispered. “The call of the forest... ‘a return to our roots.’ That was no symbol. Father Tree was calling me. Our ancestors were calling me home.” 

He turned and climbed through the trees, bound for his own den. The Wolfriders, perplexed, had no choice but to follow him on his race through the Holt. Nightfall and Spar were the swiftest, and they caught up with him as he reached the chief’s den. 

“Beloved, what –” 

Redlance uncovered a little leather satchel from among his posessions as Rainsong and One-Eye caught up with Nightfall and Spar. The rest of the Wolfriders were close on their heels. Redlance climbed back out of the den as the tribe gathered on the branches around him. 

“What is it, my chief?” Moonshade asked. 

“My greatest treasure,” Redlance said, opening the satchel and gently retrieving a single seed. “A seed from the Father Tree... from the forest that burned... the forests of my dreams... the forest where we were born.” 

Moonshade gasped. Rainsong’s hand shot up to her mouth. 

“I snatched it even as we fled,” Redlance confessed. “I’ve carried it with me through quests and war. And I’ve dreamed of the day I could replant it. And now... my dream... a call for healing... and a return to our birthplace...” 

Tears shone in Strongbow’s eyes. “Yes...” he murmured. “Everything comes full circle.” 

* * * 

It seemed the entire Wolfrider tribe filled the Palace on the flight to the Homeland. Even the younger elves whose parents had been born in the New Land and knew only the Great Holt came to see the ancestral forests of their kind. Skywise had the honour of guiding the Palace to a safe landing in a quiet meadow. 

“We have come, Swift, Blood of Ten Chiefs, to the woodland of your ancestors,” Timmain informed the chief as the Palace settled with one last little lurch. 

As he always did, Skywise summoned the disguise of a wood-covered hill to cloak the Palace from curious humans. A quick scouting flight by Petalwing confirmed the only human settlement was at least a day’s journey away. 

Slowly the Wolfriders slipped out into the forest, Swift and Redlance leading the party. Young Tass and Cricket soon broke past them, rushing into a full thicket of wild dreamberries. Littlefire flew up to perch on an oak branch. The wolves bolted into the woods, yipping and play-fighting. 

The woods had changed much since they had fled the fire over four hundred years before. New growth had covered the forest soil. Trees had grown, died and regenerated. Deadfalls nurtured colonies of new moss and saplings. Great oaks and elms once again supported the forest canopy. To the younger Wolfriders and the adopted elves like Rayek, Tyldak and Skot, it was just a wood like any other. But to the Wolfriders born and raised at the Father Tree, it was home. 

“It’s called ‘Goodtree’s Rest,’” Swift whispered, tears in her eyes. 

“All these years...” Redlance’s eyes scanned the moss-laden trees. “Long re-grown... we could have returned years ago. Perhaps I feared it would not be the same... but now...” 

Filled with new life, Swift turned on her lifemate. “Rrrrrrayek!” she exclaimed, seizing his waist and lifting him up the air. “I’ve come back, lifemate!” She set him back down and embraced him tightly. “And you’re here with me! How I’ve longed to show you my land!” 

Rayek looked around the trees. “Reminds me of Forbidden Grove,” he remarked casually. 

“The Forbidden Grove?” Swift gaped at him in horror. “It’s nothing like it–” she began, before a sly smile crossed Rayek’s face and she realized he was simply baiting her. “Bead-rattler!” she beat his shoulders lightly before embracing him again. 

The wolfpack began the howl, and the Wolfriders joined in eagerly. Four centuries after the humans drove them away, they had finally returned. 

* * * 

The site of Father Tree had long since grown over, and the faintest remnants of the fire-scorched stump had rotted away. But Redlance dug a small depression in the soil just south of the original site and set his treeshaping magic to work. The Wolfriders waited anxiously for the first sprouts to appear above the ground. 

“Oomph!” Rayek exclaimed as the large black wolf collapsed in his lap. “Swift!” 

“Come on, Ranger, off.” 

The leggy wolf gave Rayek a lick on the face, then obligingly returned to Swift’s side. “He’s your wolf-friend, why does he keep thinking he’s mine?” Rayek complained, wiping off the wolf spittle. 

“You’re becoming a Wolfrider, I guess,” Swift chuckled. 

“I am not a Wolfrider!” 

“Shh,” Skywise hissed, delighted at Rayek’s horrified expression. 

Long moments passed. Redlance’s expression turned from serene to strained. At length he gave up, clutching his forehead. “I... I don’t understand!” 

“Beloved?” Nightfall touched his shoulder gently. 

“Something’s in the way. Preventing growth. The blackness from my dreams... turning the soil hard... unyielding.” 

“Yes...” Sunstream breathed. He scanned the woods. “My senses are screaming like a carrion bird. There’s a darkness in these woods. Darkness born of ancient forces... disordered and diseased.” He turned back to the Wolfriders. “Since I was a small cub I’ve known of Madcoil, the monster made from old magic gone bad. Good or bad, magic stays. And it’s hindering Redlance’s efforts.” 

“But we must have a Father Tree!” Redlance declared. “The Holt’s not the Holt without it!” 

In the days that followed Redlance shaped existed oaks into little dens for the Eldertribe, and its members filled the new dens with their furs and possessions. The visitors continued to sleep in the Palace, and Skywise and Sunstream shaped new bedrooms to hold all the many guests from the Great Holt. But Redlance’s heart was still heavy. These smaller dens would serve, but they were no more home to the Eldertribe than the cold crystalline rooms of the Palace. The problem of Father Tree remained. 

Days turned to eights-of-days. Soon a full moon-dance took place. Rayek and Strongbow once again uncomfortably joined forces, and led the hunters in nightly searches for prey. Redlance worked every night, trying to nurture a Father Tree. 

“The humans continue to give our old territory a wide birth,” Swift remarked as she watched the human encampment from the top turret of the Palace. “Wonder why?” 

“It’s the magic in the soil, Mother,” Sunstream said. “Even they can sense it.” 

“Curse it, cubs!” Clearbrook exclaimed as she once again pulled a half-naked Cricket and Tass free of the dreamberry patch. “Are you ever going to do anything useful?” 

“D-d-do you know how long the Palace w-will stay here?” Littlefire asked as he sat between Cheipar and Weatherbird. 

“Until the new Holt is realized,” Weatherbird said. “Don’t worry. We aren’t going to return home until we’ve solved this riddle of Father Tree.” 

“Perhaps we’ll stay longer,” Cheipar offered, and Littlefire’s eyes lit up. “Change of scenery.” 

Littlefire laced his arm through his brother’s and curled up against him on the fallen log, laying his head against Cheipar’s shoulder as he had when he was a little cub. It made an incongruous sight, the tall Glider snuggled like a child next to the compact Wolfrider. 

Cheipar bent his head close to Littlefire’s ear. “Turtle,” he whispered softly, and Littlefire’s too-loud laughter filled the clearing. 

“Was that Littlefire?” Nightfall asked as she joined Redlance around the misshapen roots he had managed to coax out of the ground. 

Redlance smiled. “A rarity.” 

“The privilege of youth,” Nightfall said. “They can’t understand what it’s like... the longing for what’s lost...” 

“They’ve known many Holts in their lives, all home in different ways. But we old growlers will never know a true home until we can revive the Father Tree.” 

“You’re no old growler, lifemate,” Nightfall said. She stroked the whiskers on his cheek affectionately. “Though you’re looking more like an elder with each season.” 

Another moondance passed, and still Redlance could summon nothing more than a few withered rootlets above ground. One night his patience dissolved. “Timmorn’s blood!” he exclaimed. “I can’t do any more!” 

“It’s that old magic,” Sunstream said. “It sleeps deep in the bones of the land. But it’s waking now because of your efforts, Redlance.” 

“No,” Redlance shook his head. “It awoke earlier. My dream... the voices of my parents... my ancestors embodied in Father Tree.... ‘Save us, Redmark, son.’ But how? From what?” His usual calm broke and he seized a rock to hurl into the underbrush. “What’s wrong with me! Father Tree called me and I answered! But I can’t heal this tainted earth! The Father Tree will never regrow!” 

“Don’t lose hope, Redlance,” Sunstream said. “Before... there’d be nothing we could do. But we have the Palace now. Weatherbird and Skywise and I are searching the Scroll daily for some way we can burn away the ancient darkness.” 

Redlance sank to the ground in defeat. “Mother... Father... I can hear you. What do you want of me? How can help you? Why won’t you answer?” 

* * * 

Skywise was awakened from a deep sleep by an insistent poking of his shoulder. He knew who it was before he even opened his eyes. **Weatherbird... it’s not even dawn yet. Come on, cub, have a heart, I just feel asleep.** 

The prodding continued, and Skywise cracked his eyes open. A faint silver glow filled his bedroom, and he just make out Weatherbird’s face peering down at him. With her dark skin and violet-silver hair she looked like a shadow ghost. 

“Whaaa....” he moaned. 

“Shh,” she held a finger to her lips. **We have to go, Grandfather.** 

“Go where?” he mumbled. 

The child-like voice echoed in his head. **I know how to kill the bad magic between us and the human camp. I need your help. I need you to take me where you killed Madcoil.** 

“What?” Skywise said up. A moment later he remembered his slumbering lifemate. He looked over his shoulder. Savin was still fast asleep, her reddish-brown hair scattered across the pillow. She was always a sound sleeper. 

**Are you mad, cub?** 

**I’m going to find that pool of ancient magic, and put an end to it.** 

**Weatherbird...** Skywise slipped out of the bed and reached for his clothes. **Does your father know about this?** 

**He’s sleeping too. So’s Cheipar.** 

**And you’re not going to wake them – no, of course not. Because between the two of them they’d stop you, because they know you never do so well when you run off by yourself and start mucking in things you can’t understand.** 

Weatherbird flinched. **That was a long time ago. I’m no cub, Grandfather.** She bent down to retrieve something and Skywise saw that she had a waterskin and a bedroll bound up. **Now I’m going. Are you coming or am I going to have to put you to sleep so you can’t warn the others.** 

**Don’t you try your little tricks with me, cub. I’m coming, I’m coming, if only to keep your father and lifemate from killing me when they find out about this.** 

He left Savin still sleeping as he followed Weatherbird out into the early morning. They hiked through the woods, leaving the Palace and the slumbering half-Holt that Redlance had created behind them. A gentle breeze sent up a low whistling sound. 

“Whistling leaves, hear?” Skywise said. 

“Sounds like a Preserver with head congestion,” Weatherbird remarked off-hand. 

“You’re a strange little bird, you know that, cub.” 

Weatherbird flashed him a grin. 

The sun rose and they continued on. At length Weatherbird knelt down on the ground and set her ear to the soft groundcover of moss. “‘Deep in the bones of the land,’ Father said,” she murmured. “It’s true. We’re getting close, Skywise.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Skywise muttered under his breath. “Hey!” he cried as Weatherbird got to her feet and took off down a faint game trail. “What’s the rush?” Skywise gasped. Weatherbird didn’t seem to hear him. 

The scenery changed as they ran through the woods. Strong and tall elm trees grew smaller, stunned. Their bark gradually turned black, their limbs twisted. Weatherbird stopped abruptly to look at one. “The blackness that Redlance spoke of. A slow sickness eating away at their roots.” 

Briars and thorns wrapped around the base of the trees. They stumbled into a clearing ringed by thorn bushes. Weatherbird shivered. “We’re here...” 

Skywise nodded. “So much time’s passed... it may look different, but I could never forget this spot. This is where we killed Madcoil.” 

“Shhh,” Weatherbird held her head in her hands. “Don’t speak. I’m going down... to meet it...” 

“Weatherbird!” Skywise called, but she had already sunk to her knees, her mind reaching out to the black tendrils of ancient magic rising up from the ground. 

* * * 

By midafternoon it was all over. Alerted by the psychic echoes that resonated within the Palace walls, the tribe had stumbled onto the clearing just in time to see Weatherbird emerge from her deep trance. 

Sunstream and Cheipar were at her side, and they quickly bundled her into a warm fur. Weatherbird was shivering with exhaution, but her dazed face bore an expression of contented peace. 

“Oh, my brave girl,” Sunstream whispered, holding her close. Cheipar silently smoothed her silver hair back from her face. 

“The Firstcomers...” Weatherbird murmured. “They... tried... but they couldn’t adjust... their magic.... ran rampant... spread... through the ground... their fear... their anger....” 

“It’s over now,” Sunstream said. He helped Weatherbird stand, keeping the fur tightly wrapped over her shoulders. “You did it. My brave little bird.” 

“The ground is no longer tainted,” she said to Redlance. “Your Father Tree will thrive again.” 

Cheipar walked over to Skywise. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the Palacemaster. 

“Hey... look, Cheipar, I know you’re probably a little annoyed...” 

Cheipar simply stared at him. 

“But it wasn’t like she was all alone – I was there with her the whole time. Hey – I could have just let her go off by herself, you know. She’s no cub, after all.” 

Cheipar blinked. 

“I mean, the only alternative she gave me was to be wrapstuffed by one of her buzzing Preserver friends,” he said, desperation rising in his voice. “And don’t think I wouldn’t have sent to you, if I had imagined for a moment that she wouldn’t just spy on my thoughts and turn my mind inside out, and she can do that, you know – and don’t look at me like that!” 

“Mmhmm...” Cheipar murmured dubiously, before turning away. 

* * * 

The tribe returned to the center of Goodtree’s Rest and Redlance again worked his healing magic on the little oak shoot. Once again the tribe waited expectantly for the great trunk of the new Father Tree to rise up from the ground. 

Again nothing happened. 

“I don’t understand it!” Redlance raged. “The blackness has left the soil. It’s no longer heavy with death. But still... nothing! Something – something is holding back our Father Tree!” 

The Wolfriders slowly returned to the uncertain routine of hunting and howling. They slept in the dens shaped near the Palace. They waited. And Redlance retreated into his tree-den, defeated. 

“I don’t understand! We’ve done what the spirits asked of me. I returned to our roots. Weatherbird cleansed the land of the darkness Madcoil left. Father Tree should be alive once more.” 

“Maybe you haven’t understood the full meaning of the dreams,” Kit offered. “We still have some more wine.” 

Redlance considered it at length. There was nothing else to do but drink deep of Littlefire’s brew and return to dreams. 

* * * 

He crouched, his ankles and knees sunk in the ground. But he could not rise. He was stunted, bound, just like Father Tree. The forest around him was dark and foreboding. Everything seemed huge. Or perhaps he was small. As small as broken sapling. 

“Redmark...” 

“Father?” he called. 

“A healing...” 

“Father, where are you?” 

A graceful elf strode out of the shadows. Redlance looked up from the perspective of a child as his father edged closer. Was it a trick of Madcoil? No, no it was Kindle. He knew that grave but kind face, that wild thatch of red hair, those dark blue eyes always concealing a secret pain. 

“We need your strong heart, my son. Your healing soul.” 

“I came back! I came back to restore Father Tree! Why can’t I make it grow?” 

“Father Tree is dead, Redmark.” 

“I know! And I’m trying bring it back. But I can’t. I’ve tried, Father! But something holds me back.” 

“Father Tree is dead, Redmark,” a new voice spoke. Redlance tried to turn, but the force pinning him to the ground would not relent. He had to wait until his mother calmly walked in front of him. 

“You cannot raise the dead,” Fawnspot said gently. “There must be new life.” 

“Fresh soil and new life,” Kindle agreed. 

“Tell me how. Tell me how to help you.” 

Fawnspot shook her head. She smiled gently. “Come find us, son. We’ve missed you.” 

Redlance tried to rise. He could not. “Mother, help me!” 

“Redmark, child of our bones,” spoke a cool female voice. Redlance watched spellbound as Goodtree appeared, clad in clinging vines and leaves. “Come home to us,” she commanded. 

“How? Tell me!” 

“We’ve missed you,” Fawnspot repeated. 

“Come find us,” announced a lanky blonde as she joined Kindle. She took his hand in hers. “We’ve missed you, child of my son.” 

“Speedwell? Please! Help me! Help me find you.” He held out his hands imploringly. 

“He has come back to us at last.” Now a handsome elder entered the clearing, an elegant elf-woman with golden hair at his side. 

“He reaches, but he has not found us,” Goodtree said. 

“He does not understand,” Speedwell mourned. 

“We’ve missed you, son,” Fawnspot soothed. 

“We’re waiting for you, Redlance,” Tanner spoke. “We need fresh soil and new life.” 

“Come find us!” Stormlight cried impulsively, seizing Redlance’s arms and yanking him free of the soil. 

Redlance awoke with a start. The scent of dreamberries were all that remained of his vision. 

* * * 

Redlance found Weatherbird sitting by an old stump with Quicksilver. Mother and daughter were playing an Islander puzzle game with a handful of twigs. Redlance had never taken the time to learn the game of strategy, but according to Weatherbird it was even harder to figure out than the Scroll of Colors. 

“I need you,” Redlance whispered in her ear. 

Weatherbird blinked. “What is it?” 

He beckoned her to join him away from Quicksilver. “I think I may have figured something out,” he whispered. 

“About Father Tree?” 

“I need your help.” He took her by the hand and led her into the shadows at the outskirts of their temporary Holt. **I can’t claim to understand half of what goes on in your head. But I know you can understand the whispers of spirits better than any living elf. You.... you can channel the voices of spirits, can’t you?** 

Weatherbird nodded. **If they choose to speak through me.** 

Redlance told her in sending what he could understand of his dream. **I have to find this new soil they spoke of. But I don’t think I can do it alone. I need you to help me listen to their voices, help me find them.** 

Weatherbird nodded. **When do we leave?** 

“Now. While the trail is still fresh.” 

* * * 

They slipped quietly from the Holt, heading east by northeast. No one saw them leave... of it they did, they did not follow. Redlance led the way, carefully picking his way through the thick undergrowth. “If anything the forest has grown lusher now than it was when I was a cub.” 

“Can’t imagine what it was like in the old days.” 

“The old days? Is that what the cubs call those times?” 

“It has been over four centuries, Redlance.” 

“Centuries...” Redlance chuckled. “You know, before we met the Sun Folk and the Go-Backs we had no word for a hundred years. We had no word for a hundred. When our counting went beyond eight-eights, we gave up and called it a long time. When our counting reached the time it took to grow facefur, we called it an elder’s age... or a forest’s age.” He considered it. “I’ve lived a forest’s age. You know, it doesn’t feel that long.” He touched the facefur dusting his cheekbones. “The Sun Folk may have taught me to count, but I doubt ‘four centuries’... or more for that matter, will ever really mean anything to me.” 

“The Now of Wolf-thought. What is it like? I’ve never felt it.” 

“It’s... walking through a new-green’s fog, with a shaft of sunlight over your head. Everything behind you is cool... fading away like an old dream. And everything in front of you is veiled in mist... mysterious... unreachable. But right where you are, the sun is in your face. And everything is warm, and sharp, and more alive than words can describe. And it’s beautiful beyond words.” 

They walked in silence for a time, and from the way Weatherbird scanned every tree they passed, every bird they flushed out, Redlance imagined she was trying to see as Wolfriders do. Softly, doubtlessly unawares, she begin to hum to herself. 

Her hum stopped abruptly. She smiled, then continued her melody. 

A few moments later Redlance caught a scent in the still night air. 

“We’re being followed.” 

“Mm-hm,” Weatherbird nodded. “It’s Cheipar. Cheipar!” she hollered into the night with a child’s abandon. “Redlance caught you. You can come down.” 

Cheipar dropped to the forest floor silently, no more than thirty paces behind them. Had the air not shifted slightly, Redlance might never had scented him. 

“How did the son of two Go-Backs and Pike ever get to be so quiet?” he stammered. 

Cheipar calmly took his place next to Weatherbird. 

“My guardian,” Weatherbird said cheerfully. 

They continued through the woods, the three of them. As night turned to morning they stopped and rested by a small creek. Cheipar killed a small bird for them. Redlance ate his portion raw, while the two lifemates roasted theirs. 

“Has anyone sent to you?” Weatherbird asked the chief. 

“No, thankfully. You?” 

“No. Mother saw me go off with you. They know you have your own quest to complete.” 

“A quest...” Redlance sighed. “I wish I knew how to go about this quest.” 

“Why did you choose to go this way?” Weatherbird asked. 

“I don’t know. It seemed... right.” 

“Then you’re already well on your way.” 

They slept for a few hours, then continued on. They tracked the little stream until it emptied into a large brook, then tracked it until it joined a small river. Suddenly they were faced with a crossroads. Follow the river east or west? 

“Which way?” Redlance asked them. 

Weatherbird shrugged. “Which way do you think?” 

“I don’t know. Towards sun-goes-down lies the human camps, so we probably shouldn’t go that way. But I have no idea what lies towards sun-comes-up. Unexplored territory... Strongbow used to say that taking the unproven path kills. Maybe we should just cross the river and continue north.” 

“Which way feels right to you? 

“I don’t know.” 

Weatherbird walked over to him and clapped her hands over his heads. Before Redlance could protest she nudged him to turn around. She spun him around several times until he was reeling. “Keep your eyes closed,” she told him as she slowly removed her hands. “Now listen. Listen to them. Where are they calling from?” 

Redlance took a step forward. And Cheipar caught him a moment before he would have fallen into the creek. 

Redlance opened his eyes. He was facing sun-comes-up. 

* * * 

Night was falling when Redlance led them away from the river, veering north. Weatherbird winced occasionally as they walked. Cheipar touched her elbow gently. “No, it’s all right,” she whispered. “Just... buzzing in my head.” 

“That’s what Sunstream used to call his magic-feeling, when he was a cub,” Redlance chuckled. 

But as they continued through the woods, Redlance began to feel aware of a similar static in his head. At first it was just a vague sense of malaise, and he wondered if he was hungry. But then it grew more disorienting. He felt as though countless little flies were flying about his head. No... not flies, but voices, countless voices. Countless spirits, all beckoning him at once, all hissing and tugging at his consciousness. 

“Redlance?” Weatherbird asked. 

His hands rose to his head. He could hear them more clearly now. The voices of his parents... his grandparents... his great-grandparents and beyond. All the spirits the Father Tree once housed from the day when Goodtree arrived, bearing the souls of her parents within her... all were calling to him more, flitting about his mind like a swarm of Preservers. 

“Redlance!” Weatherbird called as he abandoned the lightly trod game trail they had followed until now. The chief raced through the underbrush, chasing the voices now clammoring in his head. Weatherbird and Cheipar raced to catch up with him, but Redlance outpaced him as the voices drove him ever faster. 

Briars tore at his leathers, and thin whip-like branches stung his cheeks. Now the whispers had become shouts. Redlance raced against the voices, tears of exhertion in his eyes. 

A root tripped him, and he fell through a net of creepers into a small clearing. 

The voices fell silent, dissolving into a hushed intake of breath. 

Redlance got to his feet. The glade measured no more than thirty paces across. Several small, scrappy oaks hemmed it in on all sides. In the distance Redlance could hear a babbling brook. He smelled a great quantity of water nearby. 

Weatherbird and Cheipar caught up with him. “What? Redlance?” she stammered. 

“This is it. This is the place.” Redlance staggered to the center of the glade. He fell to his knees and brushed at the moss-covered ground. “Mother! Father! I hear you! I’ve come. What do I do now?” 

Fresh soil and new life... a new holt. A healing... 

“How? What do I use? What do I plant? I have no more seeds of Father Tree.” 

No need, my son. Reach down. The answer is there. 

Redlance extended his senses into the warmth earth. Deep below he found a little capnut sprout... dropped years ago and covered by rotting leaves and worm-tilled earth. It had tried to grow, but the weight of the soil had smothered it. He nudged the sprout and it fought back against the weight of the earth. Little rootlets shot out and anchored it in the soil. A little shoot appeared above the ground. It rose to Redlance’s shoulders, then higher. The trunk thickened, widened, and it branched out high above Weatherbird’s head. 

The voices hissed in Redlance’s head. More, son. More! 

The oak was already a giant, grown several decades in the span of mere moments. But the spirits were not satisfied. He felt a static charge in the air, like a precursor to skyfire... 

“Weatherbird...” he breathed. 

The powers of countless spirits tried to aid him... yet only overwhelmed him. 

“Weatherbird, help me,” he gasped. 

Weatherbird dropped to his side and touched the nape of his neck. “I’m here, Redlance,” she spoke, but her voice was not her own. It was lower, cool and sharp like brightmetal. “We’re all here, grandson of my daughter. Use our strength.” 

The tree continued to grow, its branches reaching higher, its trunk growing thicker. Cheipar watched the two magic-users in wonder, then drew in a sharp breath as he heard a creaking sound. 

The five other oaks which ringed the clearing were moving, their branches leaning in towards the new tree growing in the center of the circle. Their own scrawny trunks thickened, and new shoots appeared on their branches. 

An almost tangible glow hung in the air. 

Cheipar’s breathing quickened. Now the trees were bending into the clearing, almost bowing before the new oak tree. They folded into the main trunk, forming a great network of curving branches and aerial roots. Now Cheipar could see a pattern developing. The bases of all five satellite trees were merging with the base of the new tree, which the branches and trunks interwined in a lover’s embrace. From six trees emerged one, an oak unlike any other, rising higher and branching wider. Great knots and protrusions formed, the precurssors to tree dens. Huge ladders of leaves, not unlike that of the veils of weeping willows, unfurled to the ground. 

Redlance collapsed, and Weatherbird alongside him. Cheipar rushed under the shadows of wooden arches, and pulled them out from under the new Holt-tree. 

Redlance and Weatherbird slowly regained consciousness, groggy at first. Weatherbird nestled against her lifemate, but Redlance staggered to his feet and gazed up at the tree he had made, a tree as large as the Palace itself. 

He heard the spirits laughing, cheering in his mind. 

And then, out of all the voices, he heard his father. 

Thank you, Redmark, my son. Here at last is a Holt befitting our vision. 

* * * 

The Wolfriders caught up with the three elves before sunrise. It seemed the tribe knew what had happened before Weatherbird could even send to them all. Redlance was amazed, but she was not. “The shouts of so many joyful spirits – ancestors of us all? How could our kin not have heard?” 

Nightfall met her lifemate at the base of the new Holt-tree and embraced him. “Oh, lifemate. This is... beyond joy!” 

The melding of the six oaks had opened up the clearing, and now the Wolfriders saw a great pool of water less than fifty paces from the tree, fed by a babbling brook. The monstrous oak looked almost like a rainforest banyan tree, with its great buttress roots and arching branches. 

“This is the Holt of Holts,” Swift said. “The Palace of Holts!” 

“I finally understood what my parents were trying to tell me,” Redlance said. “Father Tree was a fine vessel for our kind in the past. But we’ve grown – both in numbers and in our vision. We had outgrown the old soil, and we needed to be replanted.” 

“What possessed you to make it so big?” Rayek asked. “Far bigger than your Eldertribe needs.” 

“Big enough for all the Wolfrider ancestors,” Redlance said. “Big enough for all our children – and our children’s children. Big enough to hold the souls of our kind for ages to come.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Swift whispered, tears in her eyes. “What shall we call it?” 

“The Evertree,” Redlance said. 

Once again he heard his parents’ voices in his head. “Welcome home, son,” they said, and he felt their love encircle him like a warm cloak. “Now we are all one again, a family united beyond all undoing, here at Journey’s End, at Redmark’s Rest.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the full EQ Alternaverse at http://www.janesenese.com/swiftverse


End file.
